


Smol Bean II: A Night on the Slow Path

by TheSaddleman



Series: Smol Bean [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humour, Radio, a little metafiction, references to actual events, tv commercials - Freeform, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 18:49:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9507272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSaddleman/pseuds/TheSaddleman
Summary: Nina enlists Clara Oswald to take her place at a commercial voiceover recording session. But the session is set for Wednesday, which means the Doctor has to come along. When Clara's voice gives out, it's up to the Doctor to save the day. "Yes, always."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Elements of this story here are based upon actual events, and fans in particular of Orson Welles may recognize some of this story. For everyone else, come back for the End Notes and I'll explain what's up.
> 
> While reading the first Smol Bean (http://archiveofourown.org/works/7878979) isn't mandatory to follow this story, it doesn't hurt.

“You are such a pest! I wouldn’t direct any living actor in Shakespeare the way you’re directing me. And this script is a lot of tripe, you know that.”

The Doctor slapped the script down onto the table in front of him, a large microphone pointed into his face as he glared in the general direction of the control room. Behind the soundproofed glass the voice director, a weasel-faced man with an extreme comb-over, sighed and Clara Oswald, sitting beside said weasel-faced man, facepalmed herself once again.

“Doctor, please just read the script as written,” said the weasel-faced man with the extreme comb-over.

“But you can’t make me emphasize ‘In’ before ‘July.’ It’s just not done. Tell me where in English you can emphasize ‘ _in_ July’ and … I’ll bake a soufflé for you.”

Clara tried to stifle a giggle as the weasel-faced man with the extreme comb-over sighed again.

***

It was supposed to be an easy job. Clara’s best-friend-who-was-not-a-two-hearted-alien, Nina, normally a photographer by trade, had come upon a slow patch in her work, and had picked up a gig doing voiceovers for TV commercials. Problem was, between signing the contract for the gig and the actual recording session, she and her photo studio assistant had decided to run off and get married in Belgium. 

Why Belgium? It might have had something to do with the fact Nina’s paramour was one of the tens of millions of disguised Zygons living in the UK, and in Belgium there were fewer questions asked at the marriage office. Or maybe it was just because Nina and her zubby-to-be just liked Belgium.

Whatever the reason, Nina’s sudden elopement left a contract to be fulfilled and potential legal action if no one turned up at the appointed hour. Having previously roped Clara and the Doctor into standing in for a pair of AWOL models and doing a photo shoot for the cover of a wedding magazine, Nina convinced Clara to, in Nina’s words, “devote her lovely Lancashire tones” to the recording session in her place.

“Besides, we both know you have a face for radio,” Nina had joked. 

After summarily throwing something soft at Nina for that dig, Clara agreed to do it. What the hell—she was always up for new experiences and, if she could stare down Missy and the Daleks in one day, surely reading a few words into a microphone would be no problem at all. 

There was just one issue: the recording session was set for a Wednesday evening, which was always her time with the Doctor. Sure, Wednesday was a school day, so she had to spend the requisite hours in front of a class teaching stuff like _Wuthering Heights_ and _Pride and Prejudice and Zombies_ , but her students always noticed she was preoccupied, often staring at the clock.

There were two rules the kids violated at their peril. Rule No. 1: on Wednesdays, once classes ended for the day, _no one_ was to detain Ms. Oswald with questions or meetings after class. Rule No. 2: no one was to ask Ms. Oswald why, on some Wednesdays, she would lock herself in the supply room and come out a few minutes—or hours—later, looking as if she’d just run a marathon, and sometimes wearing different clothes than when she went in.

The students at Coal Hill School were hardly angels themselves, so an informal “see no evil, speak no evil” policy had gone into effect. That didn’t stop some of the students from wondering who she’d fallen in love with and why the couple had decided a supply closet in a busy school was a good enough place for a weekly rendezvous. 

Clara knew about this, of course—Courtney Woods, one of the only people at Coal Hill who was clued in to why Clara always made a beeline for home or the supply room after classes, had let her know—but decided that trying to deny anything would just make matters worse, so she said nothing. She was, however, relieved that—regardless of whether the kids’ speculation was anywhere near the mark—at least the expressions of sympathy over the death of Danny had subsided as the students surmised she’d found somebody else. 

Wednesdays were sacred days for Clara, but as she circled the recording session date in her calendar, she rationalized that the Doctor might approach this as a different adventure, and he might enjoy watching Clara make a fool of herself for a while without any effort required from him.

***

Wednesday rolled around and Clara hurried home after class. (She and the Doctor had agreed to alternate between school and home for her pick-up after Courtney had warned them the custodial staff were becoming suspicious.) As usual, the Doctor was already waiting for when she got home. He was resplendent in a full-fledged tuxedo. That was Clara’s first clue that he wasn’t going to be over-pleased with the change of plans.

“But, Clara, I’ve booked us a table at the Coconut Grove to see Sinatra in 1949! And I got Edith Head to design you another outfit, too,” the Doctor said, his face taking on a hangdog expression as he held up a tempting-looking garment bag.

Edith Head was an old friend of the Doctor’s. The last time, she’d designed a fab ski suit for Clara to wear on a skiing holiday to Mars; before that, it was the killer dress that had turned so many heads—including the Doctor’s—on the Orient Express in space. Clara fought back the urge to look inside the bag just yet as she laid it gently on the back of her couch.

“We can go afterwards. I can’t wait to see what Edith has come up with, but the TARDIS is a time machine, you know. A couple hours won’t make a difference.” 

“No, I guess it won’t. I just … Clara, it sometimes feels like we’re getting a bit too … domestic here,” the Doctor said.

“Domestic? That was just a misunderstanding at Space Vegas; we’re not really space married, you know … not yet.”

The Doctor’s eyes took on a startled expression. “Got ya,” Clara chuckled.

“So then, what is this recording session you’re talking about?” the Doctor asked, changing the topic as quickly as possible. “I didn’t think you were musical. Though having said that, we have been meaning to check out if that was really one of your echoes in the Vernons Girls back in the fifties.”

“I forgot to mention; I found out there’s one of me singing along with John and Yoko on ‘Give Peace a Chance.’” Clara paused as the Doctor raised an “Are you kidding?” eyebrow. “Seriously, I’ll show you the photo. Artie e-mailed it to me last week. I’m, or she’s, sitting just behind Timothy Leary.”

“And guess who was holding the camera!” the Doctor’s eyes danced as Clara laughed.

“You’re joking!”

“Nope. They were planning to do the recording session in one of the meeting rooms at the hotel, but I happened to know a Graske was roaming the halls, so I suggested to Joko that…”

“Wait … did you just call them ‘Joko’!” Clara rolled her eyes. “Anyway, this isn’t that sort of recording. I don’t think I can carry a tune sober or outside the shower. It’s for TV adverts.”

“Oh, no, Clara! That’s the lowest form of art in the history of human culture. Except mimes. And ‘Ullo, John, Got a New Motor?’ by Alexei Sayle. And ‘Mysterious Girl’ by Peter Andre, of course … oh and those magic shows by Der-”

“Enough, Doctor, I get the picture. Are you going to come with me and lend me moral support?”

The Doctor kicked his toe lightly into the carpet. “Oh, alright.”

Clara tiptoed up and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks,” she said, before throwing on a coat and grabbing a blue binder off the kitchen counter.

“TARDIS or walkies?” the Doctor inquired, key in hand.

“Last time we took the TARDIS to Nina’s photo shoot, we got detoured by a dinosaur fight and, while that might get me into character for recording an episode of _The Flintstones_ , I really don’t need the distraction. We’ll take an Uber.”

“A what-ber?” the Doctor asked.

“Never mind. After you.” The Doctor preceded Clara out the door so she could lock it behind as they departed. 

Alone now in Clara’s flat, the TARDIS tuned her scanner so she could eavesdrop as her thief and the one with the eyes headed down the stairs. Just to pass the boredom and to make sure they weren’t making a quick return like they did last time. She detected Clara laughing.

“‘Ullo, John, Gotta New Motor?’ Part 4 yet? My dad had a copy of that once, tried to play it and ended up having to spend the night in the car once Mum was through with him.”

“Moment of weakness. Background singer. Lost a bet,” the Doctor said, using as few words as possible to get past the moment. “I left the studio before the swearing started.”

“You, swear? That I’d like to hear.”

“Be careful what you wish for.”

With that, the couple exited the building and the TARDIS was left to her own devices. Using her molecular dispensator to transform all the confections in the one with the eye’s newly purchased box of chocolates into habanero surprise kept her occupied for approximately two-fifths of an attosecond. It was a start. She’d have to find something else to do.

Her scanner focused on Clara’s toaster. If she’d had eyes, the TARDIS would have narrowed them evilly.

***

As the Uber driver maneuvered through London’s traffic, Clara opened the binder, which contained about thirty pages of large-printed text.

“These are the scripts I’ll have to read,” she explained, popping open the binder so she could hand over a few sheets for the Doctor’s inspection. “I don’t have to memorize all this, fortunately, but I still had to read through it a few times to get familiar.”

“Hmmm… skin-care products, a video game console, eyeglasses, frozen peas, another video game console … what the hell is ‘CBeebies’? Is that a medical condition or something?”

“Depends on your age,” Clara laughed, taking the pages back and replacing them in the binder.

“So don’t tell me, Clara, you did this sort of thing before you got into being a nanny,” the Doctor said, recalling how Clara had confessed to prior experience as a model before the wedding magazine cover fiasco.

“I narrated my school’s Christmas pageant when I was ten. Does that count?” Suddenly, as the Doctor gave her a somewhat dubious look, Clara Oswald—she who once wielded a sword in battle, fought Daleks, won an argument against Gandhi, and even once prevailed in a staring contest with a Weeping Angel—started to get a bit nervous.

“Don’t suppose it’s too late to head to the Coconut Grove, eh?” she asked.

***

The weasel-faced man with the extreme comb-over, known to his mother as Kevin and to everyone else as “the weasel-faced man with the extreme comb-over,” greeted Clara and the Doctor with sweaty handshakes. “You didn’t have to dress up on my account,” Kevin said, eyeing the Doctor’s tux as Clara tried to figure out a way to dry her hand off on her trouser leg without being obvious about it.

“Oh, trust me, I didn’t. I’m just here to … give Clara moral support.” (As well as a moist disinfectant hand-wipe that he surreptitiously fed into Clara’s grateful fingers when Kevin’s back was turned for a moment.) 

“All right, Clara, have you ever done this before?” Kevin asked. “Nina didn’t provide a lot of details about your experience.”

“Not really, no,” Clara said, her nervousness returning. 

“Normally I wouldn’t do this, but we’re under a tight deadline and you did come highly recommended from Nina, so I’ll have to trust you,” said Kevin. “It’s easy. Just pretend you’re reading a story to a kid. Have fun with it, but I might ask you to read it a certain way. Head into the studio and sit down at the table and I’ll tell you when we’re ready.”

“Okay,” Clara said, casting a nervous glance at the Doctor. The Doctor returned with his best “you’ll be fine” expression which was the exact same as his “your fly is open” expression for all the good it did Clara, who muttered to herself as she approached the mic. “Okay, Oswald. You’ve survived Missy, Daleks, Sontarans, Zygons, Nina’s camera, that damn hummingbird. How hard can this be?”

***

“Thank you, cows, thank you for all your dairy goodness! Th-uh-uh-can I start again?”

“Sure, Clara. What happened?”

“I, uh, ran out of air?”

She was lying, of course. She had plenty of air. Problem was she made the mistake of looking up from her script and saw the Doctor collapsed in a chair trying to laugh without making any sound. 

_OK, I know I’m not reading Shakespeare here_ , she thought, hoping maybe the Doctor might pick up her vibes. _Give me some slack_. 

To her surprise, the Doctor, separated from Clara by Plexiglas and the tuxedo sleeve he was biting into, nodded and wiped his eyes. Clara made a mental note to be mindful of her thoughts around the Doctor. Mischievously, she fired a quick mental image in the Doctor’s direction and felt great satisfaction to see him blush.

“Take Two,” Kevin said. “In three, two …”

“Thank you cows, thank you for all your dairy goodness…”

Clara tried to ignore the fact the Doctor was now biting his knuckle.

***

“We know a remote farm in Linconshire where Mrs. Buckley lives. In July, peas grow there…” 

“I’m sorry, Clara. That just doesn’t sound right.”

“Pardon?”

“Your voice. It doesn’t have the oomph, the authority that we need for this one.”

“It’s frozen peas. It’s not a national defence bulletin.” Clara regretted sounding defensive, but it had been a longer-than-expected evening (the Nintendo DS ad alone had taken twenty takes to get right).

“Your voice sounds shot, too,” Kevin said, sympathetically. “Maybe you’ve overdone it. I think you’re done for the night.”

Kevin was right. Clara’s voice was giving out. Over the last two hours, she’d done ads for rice, eyeglasses, fruit corners, even health coverage for cancer patients. She’d given her voicebox a real workout—girl next door, warm simplicity, thought-provoking, girl next door again. She’d done the chirpy, RP-tinged lilt that sounded like something out of a Jane Austen miniseries, and she’d done slow, deep and sultry. She really didn’t feel like she was up to doing anymore.

The Doctor apparently had zoned out some time earlier and was busy inventing a device for predicting solar hurricanes using some leftover wire he’d found in a box of discards.

Kevin checked his notes. “I guess we’ll have to bring someone in tomorrow to record the peas. There’s also still the one for beef burgers.”

The Doctor shook himself out of his reverie. Even though it seemed as if he’d been bored, he actually enjoyed watching Clara record the ads, even though he had to bite back more laughter at some of the ridiculous things she had to say. But he’d been touched by how she delivered the cancer treatment message. But the Coconut Grove awaited (and he wanted to see if his new solar hurricane detector would work properly, though he admitted to himself it could as easily just be good for stirring soup).

“Come along, Clara, we have a concert to get to. Mrs. Buckley’s peas will have to wait.”

Kevin perked up. “Hang on a second. Say that again.”

“Come along, Clar…”

“…no, the last bit.”

“Mrs. Buckley’s peas will have to wait.”

Kevin slapped his hands together. “That’s it! That’s the voice we need! What’s your name again?”

“Doctor Basil John Disco Funkenstein. The Third.”

“Want to give it a try?”

Clara’s frantic head-shaking and silently mouthed, “No, no, no, no…” went unheeded as Doctor Basil John Disco Funkenstein (the Third) gave Kevin a wide grin.

***

Clara knew it was a mistake the moment the Doctor opened his mouth. Not because of how he said the words; she loved his voice and once even compared it to mood lighting. (Trivia: one of the things that pushed Clara’s buttons was a strong voice with character, like that actor Rufus something-or-other, or John Hurt, or Danny Pink, or Kate Stewart, or, well, the Doctor. Not just “her” Doctor, either; she’d once stumbled upon a recording by his fourth incarnation and that with a bottle of rosé had been her set for a chilly winter (non-Wednesday) evening.)

No, the mistake was … well, we’re back to the Doctor ranting at Kevin about Mrs. Buckley and her frozen peas.

“There’s temporal discontinuity here,” the Doctor added to his rant.

“Dis-what?” Kevin asked.

“Looking at the images you want me to talk over. You start out showing the farm in winter, but I don’t start talking till we’re inside. I think it’s so nice that you see a snow-covered field and say, ‘Every July, peas grow there.’ Don’t you want me to say ‘July’ over the snow? That’s the fun of it.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Yes, always,” the Doctor replied with satisfaction. Clara facepalmed herself again and wished she was back in class.

“But it’s still, ‘In July,’” Kevin reminded.

“That’s just stupid. ‘In July.’ That’s impossible. Meaningless!”

“OK, it was my fault. If you could leave ‘Every July,’ that’s fine.”

“There’s too much directing around here.”

Now it was Kevin’s turn to facepalm.

“OK, maybe this was a bad idea,” he said. “And … oh, no…”

Clara looked over with concern. “What’s wrong.”

Kevin pulled a script from under a coffee mug. “I forgot all about this one, and it’s also due tomorrow morning! It’s for a company that imports fish fingers from Norway.”

“Fish fingers?” the Doctor replied. “I like the sound of that.”

“I thought you hated fish fingers now,” Clara called back.

“I can live without the custard. These aren’t fish fingers with custard, are they?”

Kevin actually glanced at the script to check before the ridiculousness of the statement registered. “Uh, no. Just the regular breaded variety.”

“Alright, let’s have it then,” said the Doctor.

Hesitantly, Kevin passed a copy of the script to Clara who delivered it to the Doctor. 

“Here we go again,” she muttered.

***

“We know a certain fjord in Norway, near where the cod gather in great shoals, called Dårlig Ulv Stranden…”

“Doctor, please stick to the script. That’s not what it’s called.”

“I like that better than what’s written here,” the Doctor grumped back at the director.

“But that’s not where the fish fingers come from!” Kevin replied.

“You humans, you don’t know what I’m up against. You write things that are only correct because they’re grammatical, but they’re tough on the ear. It’s unpleasant to read. Unrewarding…”

“Somebody kill me now,” Kevin said. Clara could only put her hand on his shoulder in sympathy.

***

“Here, under protest, is beef burgers.”

It was the last ad they had to record. The advertising representatives were expecting a recording in the morning. And it was already 11 p.m.

The Doctor took a deep breath. “We know a little place in the American far west, where Charlie Briggs chops up the finest prairie-fed beef ... this is a lot of twaddle, you know that,” the Doctor muttered.

“Actually, you emphasized prairie-fed a bit too much.”

“So you want me to emphasize ‘beef’?”

Kevin shrugged. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“But you can’t emphasize ‘beef.’ That’s like you wanting me to emphasize ‘in’ before ‘July!’ Come on, you’re losing your head! I’ve spent more time with you people than I’ve spent saving some planets! I mean, in this era there’s a rash of insomnia across the world. If I put this script online, people who haven’t had a kip since 1946 would be in a coma.”

Kevin’s face returned to its now-accustomed placement in his palm. Clara could only shrug.

*** 

But here’s the thing: despite all of the criticism, the tension, when the time came to deliver an actual take on the beef burger commercial, the Doctor did so perfectly. Never had Kevin nor Clara ever heard a description of chopping beef come across so eloquently. 

And it seemed to give the Doctor a newfound sense of enthusiasm. So he asked for another go at fish fingers. This time, Clara and Kevin could easily imagine themselves off the shores of Norway, the sea wind _whishing_ through their hair.

And, by the time the Doctor was done with the ad for frozen peas, both of them had forgotten that he’d actually left that troubled script behind long ago. Mrs. Buckley and her frozen peas, as improvised by the Doctor, had become a tale worthy of the greatest storytellers in fiction. 

Both burst into applause as the Doctor finished.

“That was … beautiful!” Kevin cried out. Clara had to nod her agreement because she was too choked up to do anything else.

Kevin burst into the recording studio and pumped the Doctor’s hand. “You’re going to be a shoo-in for this year’s Arrows, I just know it,” he said.

“It was nothing, really,” the Doctor said as Clara gave him a silent hug. That gave the Time Lord a bit of guilt, which felt itchy. This was supposed to be Clara’s big moment. “But most of the work today was done by Clara—she was amazing,” he said, smiling at her.

“No arguments there, you were both terrific,” Kevin said. “You saved my life, Clara, and if it’s OK with you I’d like to use some samples of your work on our website.”

“Not the first time someone’s told me I’m a life-saver,” Clara said, her voice still a bit scratchy. “So he wasn’t too rough on you?” 

“What? Naah. When I first started in the business, we had Orson Welles in for a session and he stormed out halfway through. And don’t even get me started on Tom Baker’s recording session for Symphony…”

***

After the standing ovation had died down and Frank Sinatra had left the stage, Clara and the Doctor sat back in their comfortable chairs and surveyed the audience at the Coconut Grove in Hollywood, 1949. Clara gave up trying to count how many famous movie stars of the golden era were in her field of vision. She took a sip of her martini, which was actually very soothing on her throat. The Doctor was nursing a Shirley Temple. Not that this current incarnation had the same aversion to alcohol as his predecessor; it just so happened the Coconut Grove made the best Shirley Temples on the planet in 1949.

“Feeling better?” the Doctor asked.

Clara smiled. “Hmm… quite. Thank you, Doctor.”

“For what?”

“For this. Taking me here. Putting up with bizarre things like surprise photo shoots and recording sessions. You don’t have to do it.”

“But I’m your friend. Why shouldn’t I?” The Doctor looked genuinely puzzled. “And anyway, Clara, you’re my smol bean, remember?”

“I don’t think you have the meaning quite right. It means ‘small and mighty.’”

“I know what it means. I’ve seen you when we’ve been faced with saving the world—I don’t suppose there’s any chance of me talking you out of doing that, by the way…” Clara just looked at him over the rim of her martini glass and answered by taking a sip. “Didn’t think so. Anyway, you’ve put yourself on the line more times than I can count. If I can help you out in any way, Clara, I’m happy to.”

“Except that time I asked you to volunteer with me to clean up after the UNIT Christmas party.”

“I’m a Time Lord, not a miracle worker. And did you see what Benton Jr. brought for the potluck? I’m surprised you didn’t ask me to fetch the hazmat gear from the TARDIS!”

Clara chuckled. Good times. Once in a while, she wondered how long they’d last.

“So, Doctor…”

“Yes?” he replied, as she took another sip of her drink.

“So far you’ve been a model and a TV voiceover artist…”

“…and have done spectacularly well on both occasions, you must agree.”

“Aside from giving poor Nina and Kevin high blood pressure, you were fantastic. But it had to be boring for you. I mean. It has to be like travelling the slow path. No exciting time vortexes or diabolical masterminds set on universal domination. I can’t imagine you getting an adrenalin rush from talking about Mrs. Buckley’s frozen peas!”

“I’ll have you know, my dear Clara, that once I got into the swing of things, it was quite exhilarating.”

“But still...”

“Every day is special when you’re around, Clara. We could just be standing around your kitchen making soufflés and that would be enough for me. And do you want to know the best part about taking the slow path?” Clara shook her head. “We get to enjoy it longer.”

Clara smiled at this and raised her martini, motioning for the Doctor to do the same with his Shirley Temple. 

“To the slow path,” she said, her eyes meeting the Doctor’s.

“To the slow path,” he replied. “I hope it never ends.” 

_Clink_.

**Author's Note:**

> In the 1970s the great Orson Welles was hired to record a series of voiceovers for TV commercials. Unsatisfied with the scripts and frustrated with the direction, Welles went on a rather colourful tirade in the studio, criticizing the minutiae of TV commercials. The recording survives. Called "Frozen Peas", it has become a cult classic and was even adapted for an episode of Pinky and the Brain. Here, I borrow quotes from the recording, with a Doctory twist. The Frozen Peas tape does have Welles trying to record an ad for fish fingers from Norway, but he did not mention the bay where the Tenth Doctor and Rose had their farewell.
> 
> Tom Baker also had his "frozen peas" moment, and I couldn't resist quoting from his tape. The insomnia joke is taken from that recording.
> 
> But we're not done: Jenna Coleman has also recorded voiceovers for a number of TV and radio commercials. And while there's no recording of her going all "frozen peas" on anyone, the bit about "Thank you cows" is taken from one of the ads she did, and except for frozen peas, the other adverts mentioned (Nintendo, CBeebies, etc) were indeed recorded by Jenna.
> 
> Oh, and yes, someday Clara will discover what mischief the TARDIS has been up to when she's been left alone in Clara's flat.
> 
> PS: Clara actually gets the meaning of "smol bean" wrong. In the previous story it was defined correctly as "small and cute". This is intentional because, after all, this is Clara we're talking about!


End file.
